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‘No.’
‘Did he recognise you?’
‘From where?’
‘The sinking of the Arianna.’
‘I don’t think he was there,’ I say, less certain than before.
‘Not on the Arianna,’ says Cyrus. ‘He was the skipper of a second trawler, Neetha Dawn, which rescued the crew. I think he took you on board.’
‘I don’t remember being rescued.’
‘It’s the only way you could be here.’
21
Cyrus
There are no signposts pointing to Glengowrie Lodge, either in the nearest village or on the approach road or at the entrance, which is flanked by sandstone pillars weathered by age. The electronic gates are open and we follow the crushed-gravel drive through a tunnel of oak trees and across a single-lane stone bridge over a salmon river, streaked with rapids.
The lodge is a large Adam-style house surrounded by manicured lawns with perfectly mown stripes running down to the river. Near the house, a walled kitchen garden includes a small maze around a central fountain. A number of four-wheel-drive cars and luxury vehicles are parked in the turning circle.
Our arrival is greeted with a volley of gunshots and my first reaction is to duck. Nerves frayed. Memories fresh. The guns fall silent but begin again moments later. On a distant hill, I see a column of men moving in a straight line, some waving red and white flags, others beating the bushes with sticks, or banging drums or blowing horns and whistles. Birds fly up and shotguns blast, knocking them from the sky.
‘What are they doing?’ asks Evie.
‘Shooting grouse,’ I say.
‘That’s not a game. That’s a massacre.’
A woman emerges from the house. Middle-aged, pear-shaped, with hair pinned high on her head, she is all business. ‘Have you brought the pâté?’
We look at each other blankly.
‘You’re not from the butcher’s,’ she says.
‘No,’ I say.
She lifts the watch pinned to her apron near the breast pocket. ‘I knew they’d be late. I’m going to need a new entrée.’
She pauses to examine Florence, who is still dressed in her leathers, and then stares at Evie, and lastly at me. What an odd trio we make.
‘How can I help you?’ she asks.
‘We’re sorry to intrude,’ says Florence, ‘but we’re scouting for wedding venues and wondered if Glengowrie Lodge might be available.’
‘This is a private estate.’
‘Which can be leased.’
‘For grouse shooting and salmon fishing parties – small groups, not weddings.’ She looks from Florence to me. ‘Who is getting married?’
‘We are acting on behalf of a prominent public figure, a famously private one, who is seeking to secure a wedding venue off-market, so to speak. Under the radar. Money being no object.’
‘Who is it?’ she asks, intrigued.
‘We can’t tell you that.’
